Doctor Drabbles
by Moonspring
Summary: Same thing as the 'Discworld Drabbles', but set in Doctor Who-verse instead. That's where my muse landed. I set all my music at random, then wrote 200 words based on the first three songs. My way of dealing with writers block. T for strong language.
1. 10

_A/N; Writers block has got me in it's ice cold grip, and this is my way of dealing with it. It probably doesn't make any sense, it probably isn't any good, but it's here, and I hoped it helped._

_I'll try to continue 'Tintomara' next week. That was the point of this exercise, that story is really my top priority. _

_Same thing as the 'Discworld Drabbles', but set in Doctor Who-verse instead. That's where my muse landed. I set all my music at random, than wrote 200 words based on the first three songs. Tell me what you think? I think they're horribly OOC... :s_

_First drabble set after 'Runaway bride', other two should be pretty obvious. I think..._

-DWDWDWDWDWDWDW-

"_**- ...Hold another hand while the hand's still without a tool  
Drown into eyes while they're still blind... - "**_

_**Nightwish, While Your Lips Are Still Read**_

His palm itches. It's quite annoying, actually. It itches in one of those places where, no matter how much you scratch it, it doesn't help one bit. It still bloody itches!

His fingers twitch. Grasping for something that's not there any more. He tries valiantly to ignore it, and blames it on the (relatively; really, what's one year for a 900-year old time lord? ) new body.

He ignores the little voice in his head that whispers that he's fooling himself, because he knows it's wrong. He can't be fooling himself when he _knows_ that he's trying his damnedest to fool himself. Or something like that. Sometimes even he has trouble following his own prattle.

His hand is trying to tell him something he already knows, but pretends he's forgotten. Trying to tell him how much he misses that other hand, that smaller, softer hand that used to fit so perfectly in his grasp. The hand he let go of.

He decides he won't listen. He blames the regeneration, and think about other things.

If he doesn't think about it, it doesn't hurt. At least he tries to tell himself that, and it almost works.

But it still bloody itches!


	2. Master

_**...They thought that they would finish me  
But I pull through every time... -**_

_**Alice Cooper, Vengeance Is Mine **_

How many times had they 'defeated' him now? A thousand? It felt like it. And yet he still crept back from the darkness they banished him to, Every Single Time!

His so called 'judges', his adversaries, his 'lords', they always failed to thwart his return. Like a nightmare in a fragile mind, he always found a way back, one little crack in the wall to force open and bleed through.

They wouldn't have managed to get to him a single time if not for his old friend. His oldest friend.

One single entity to capture the force of nature that he considered himself to be, where hundreds had failed before.

This time, he would choose to end it himself. Because he knew there would be a way back. He had risen from dust before, and if it's one thing he does not doubt, it's himself.

So he ends it. All for him. The one who's always in his way. No matter. He'll be back. After all, he can't let him get away with it. He can't allow him to remember him as a martyr, of all things!

He'll be back for him. His most hated enemy.

The most loved one.


	3. Jack

_**...Breaking down, trick, bomb still goes  
Tick tick time on by, watching me explode... -**_

_**Ghost of the Robot, Call 911**_

Thirty-six thousand, four hundred and eighty-seven days, fifteen hours, nineteen minutes and six... seven seconds.

Not that he's counting.

That's ninety-eight years. Ninety-eight fucking years stuck on this fucking rock, with nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do but play babysitter to the fucking rift that runs trough fucking Cardiff.

Fuck!

It's going to be one of those days. He hasn't had one of those day's for a while now. They're getting more infrequent. It feels pretty reassuring, actually. To know that he's not growing content, that he's not yet accepted the situation he was unwillingly landed in. That he still has the willpower to fight for what he wants. He will get out of here!

It's probably good for the soul, these random spouts of brooding, the anger that emerges from time to time. Sometimes he forgets why he should be angry. Sometimes, most of the time, he thinks his life is pretty good. He knows he shouldn't. That's why he welcomes these days, these bad days. They're probably good for him.

He'll blow something up. He'll have sex. The best bloody therapy there is, violence and fucking.

He'll sleep soundly tonight. It's been a good bad day.


End file.
